On kind of a spur of the moment decision I went to see a movie tonight. It was a British comedy called, “Death at a Funeral.” It was a funny movie, and it was good to get out and do something different.
Seeing a movie in Spain differs very little from seeing one in the States- or anywhere, I imagine. The only major difference was probably the assigned seats. Come now, we wouldn’t want people sitting where ever they wanted, willy-nilly. (Note: what’s Spanish for “willy-nilly”?) No matter where you are, though, Friday night movie crowds are good people. They’re not worried about anything, they have the weekend ahead of them, and they all at least have some sense of fun- otherwise, what’s the point of going to see a movie? They’re likely out with a partner or a group of friends, enough to put anybody in a good mood.
I waited with my ticket in the lobby among my fellow movie-goers and the smell of popcorn. I had arrived far too early, proving once again that moving to another country doesn’t automatically change anything about you. I was almost half an hour early, as usual, and immediately (but not for the first time) realized how ludicrous that is. I pretended to read the movie fliers and posters that were scattered in the small lobby while waiting for the screen to change from, “Un Funeral de Muerte: ESPERE” to “Un Funeral de Muerte: PASE.” When it did I made my way up to the theatre.
I was directed to my seat by an usher. It was in the furthest upper left-hand corner of the theatre. When I had purchased my ticket, the ticket vendor had asked something in rapid Spanish which sounded to me like, “Esta [something] bien?” Is [something] okay? Yes, I had said. Whatever was all right, as long as I could see the screen. Looking at my seat, I now knew that the vendor had in fact said, “Ah, ticket for one. Will the loneliest seat in the house be okay?” Oh yes, limited human contact, please. Put me in a corner somewhere, if you can.
As I said, the movie was very funny. Classic British slapstick combined with agile dialogue. And hearing British people cuss, for me, is fantastic. Allen Tudyk had the best part, and the whole theatre- myself included, from my corner- laughed pretty much the whole time he was onscreen.
So far, a successful night out. Found the theatre, bought the ticket, enjoyed the movie. But the problem was that I had gone to see the movie alone, which usually isn’t a problem until you’re leaving the movie theatre. When everyone is packed into the theatre, sitting in the dark and staring in the same direction, everyone may as well all be alone. Nobody’s talking, all just watching- we’re all alone but doing to the same thing together. Great. But afterward you want to talk about the movie. Favorite parts, where you laughed the most, good quotes. When you’ve gone to the movie by yourself … well, you just put your hands in your pockets and head up down the street. If you’re lucky maybe you can blog about it when you get home.
And head up the street I did. I walked up the Calle de Doctor Corteza, passed the Plaza de Jacinto Benavente, and then up Calle de Carretas towards Sol. Sol is, I believe, in the exact center of Madrid- indeed, the exact center of Spain. It is where the Calle Gran Via and the Calle Mayor, running parallel to each other, bend in closely and almost meet creating a great open area filled with expensive shops, restaurants, and kiosks catering to visiting tourists and upper-class madrileños alike. This being a Friday night it was heavily trafficked by window-shoppers, people arriving in Madrid and looking for their hostels, and people just out for a walk in the crisp autumn air.
I had come to Sol with the intention of heading down into the Metro right away and going home, but I found my pace was becoming slower and slower as I watched everyone around me. Couples, families, groups of friends- they were all suddenly fascinating to watch as they went about their shopping and walking. I strolled along the edge of the open space for a while, watching the people and checking out the movies, handbags, and jewelry being sold streetside by the moros.
Moro means “Moor,” and is used in Spain to refer to just about anyone from Africa. A lot of them make their living selling bootlegged movies and designer-imitation goods on the street and in the Metro. Although the term moro isn’t always used in a positive light, I don’t think there’s anything inherently racist about it so I’m going to use it here. If I hear differently, of course, I’ll change it.
What the vendors do is lay out their goods flat on a square of cloth with cords tied to each corner and joined in the center. When the cops come wandering along, the moros just pick up the cords in the center and all of their movies (as an example) are gathered into a nice little bag which they can throw over their shoulder as they take off running. What was great about tonight was the fact that there were so many vendors out to sell to the weekend crowd that when a couple of police cars pulled up, I turned around to see about two dozen black men running at me with white bags over their shoulders! They cut through the crowd and took off down a side street like a school of fish that knew exactly where it was going. Within ten minutes the cops had moved on and business resumed.
The parade of nightlife had continued without interruption and I took up a position leaning against a lamppost to watch it all go by. Very European. I suddenly found myself wishing that I smoked. Leaning against a lamppost doing nothing, you must appear very strange, or at least very bored. Put a cigarette in your mouth and suddenly you’re doing something, taking a smoke break in this busy world. Well, I don’t smoke and never much cared for the habit so I had to suffice myself with putting my hands in my pockets and pretending to be invisible.
This was surprisingly easy. After a few minutes I felt like I was invisible. People would pass me on either side and pay me no mind, and I sat there like Emerson’s transparent eyeball, just watching. Once a man walked up to me with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a suitcase in tow. In Spanish accented heavily by another language (French?) he asked if I knew where a certain street was. I told him no, that I didn’t know the area very well. Maybe he should look at the map over there. I was very pleased with the completeness of my response, but I don’t think the man understood anything past, “No.”
He gave me a look that displayed disdain and understanding at once. “How dare you lean so casually against a lamppost if you’re not a local!” he seemed to say. “But since I’m a nice guy I’m trying very hard to forgive you.” Gee, thanks.
He headed back into the sea of people. I really did wish I could have helped him. I even thought about walking the ten steps and consulting the map for him, but by the time that thought entered my head it was too late. I was once again the invisible observer, sworn never to interfere. Besides, I was now watching his blue suitcase disappear along the Gran Via west past Sol.
I had been standing there I-don’t-know-how-long. I was starting to feel cold, but I liked the cold so I stayed a little longer. I watched the couples, the families, the friends … the couples, the families, the friends … and as I did so another feeling started to creep up. I was no long the impassive observer: I was lonely.
It wasn’t a total loneliness, or anything so depressing. I was simply feeling that empty space where someone should have been sharing the whole thing with me. The feeling had really been there the whole night- and probably most of my time here in Spain. Every breathtaking sight or impressive building, every crazy random Spanish event (like the drummers in El Retiro), every joke untold or meal unshared- they all lacked someone sitting next to me to whom I could say, “Hey, isn’t that something?” It was all a tree falling in the woods.
Now, it must be said that I’ve been a very good traveling companion to myself. I get along with me, I like all the same food as me, and besides which I think I’m a riot. But there are times when it would be nice to be able to turn to someone and say, “Man, that part where Allen Tudyk was ass-naked on the roof was hilarious!”
Guess you had to be there.
Seeing a movie in Spain differs very little from seeing one in the States- or anywhere, I imagine. The only major difference was probably the assigned seats. Come now, we wouldn’t want people sitting where ever they wanted, willy-nilly. (Note: what’s Spanish for “willy-nilly”?) No matter where you are, though, Friday night movie crowds are good people. They’re not worried about anything, they have the weekend ahead of them, and they all at least have some sense of fun- otherwise, what’s the point of going to see a movie? They’re likely out with a partner or a group of friends, enough to put anybody in a good mood.
I waited with my ticket in the lobby among my fellow movie-goers and the smell of popcorn. I had arrived far too early, proving once again that moving to another country doesn’t automatically change anything about you. I was almost half an hour early, as usual, and immediately (but not for the first time) realized how ludicrous that is. I pretended to read the movie fliers and posters that were scattered in the small lobby while waiting for the screen to change from, “Un Funeral de Muerte: ESPERE” to “Un Funeral de Muerte: PASE.” When it did I made my way up to the theatre.
I was directed to my seat by an usher. It was in the furthest upper left-hand corner of the theatre. When I had purchased my ticket, the ticket vendor had asked something in rapid Spanish which sounded to me like, “Esta [something] bien?” Is [something] okay? Yes, I had said. Whatever was all right, as long as I could see the screen. Looking at my seat, I now knew that the vendor had in fact said, “Ah, ticket for one. Will the loneliest seat in the house be okay?” Oh yes, limited human contact, please. Put me in a corner somewhere, if you can.
As I said, the movie was very funny. Classic British slapstick combined with agile dialogue. And hearing British people cuss, for me, is fantastic. Allen Tudyk had the best part, and the whole theatre- myself included, from my corner- laughed pretty much the whole time he was onscreen.
So far, a successful night out. Found the theatre, bought the ticket, enjoyed the movie. But the problem was that I had gone to see the movie alone, which usually isn’t a problem until you’re leaving the movie theatre. When everyone is packed into the theatre, sitting in the dark and staring in the same direction, everyone may as well all be alone. Nobody’s talking, all just watching- we’re all alone but doing to the same thing together. Great. But afterward you want to talk about the movie. Favorite parts, where you laughed the most, good quotes. When you’ve gone to the movie by yourself … well, you just put your hands in your pockets and head up down the street. If you’re lucky maybe you can blog about it when you get home.
And head up the street I did. I walked up the Calle de Doctor Corteza, passed the Plaza de Jacinto Benavente, and then up Calle de Carretas towards Sol. Sol is, I believe, in the exact center of Madrid- indeed, the exact center of Spain. It is where the Calle Gran Via and the Calle Mayor, running parallel to each other, bend in closely and almost meet creating a great open area filled with expensive shops, restaurants, and kiosks catering to visiting tourists and upper-class madrileños alike. This being a Friday night it was heavily trafficked by window-shoppers, people arriving in Madrid and looking for their hostels, and people just out for a walk in the crisp autumn air.
I had come to Sol with the intention of heading down into the Metro right away and going home, but I found my pace was becoming slower and slower as I watched everyone around me. Couples, families, groups of friends- they were all suddenly fascinating to watch as they went about their shopping and walking. I strolled along the edge of the open space for a while, watching the people and checking out the movies, handbags, and jewelry being sold streetside by the moros.
Moro means “Moor,” and is used in Spain to refer to just about anyone from Africa. A lot of them make their living selling bootlegged movies and designer-imitation goods on the street and in the Metro. Although the term moro isn’t always used in a positive light, I don’t think there’s anything inherently racist about it so I’m going to use it here. If I hear differently, of course, I’ll change it.
What the vendors do is lay out their goods flat on a square of cloth with cords tied to each corner and joined in the center. When the cops come wandering along, the moros just pick up the cords in the center and all of their movies (as an example) are gathered into a nice little bag which they can throw over their shoulder as they take off running. What was great about tonight was the fact that there were so many vendors out to sell to the weekend crowd that when a couple of police cars pulled up, I turned around to see about two dozen black men running at me with white bags over their shoulders! They cut through the crowd and took off down a side street like a school of fish that knew exactly where it was going. Within ten minutes the cops had moved on and business resumed.
The parade of nightlife had continued without interruption and I took up a position leaning against a lamppost to watch it all go by. Very European. I suddenly found myself wishing that I smoked. Leaning against a lamppost doing nothing, you must appear very strange, or at least very bored. Put a cigarette in your mouth and suddenly you’re doing something, taking a smoke break in this busy world. Well, I don’t smoke and never much cared for the habit so I had to suffice myself with putting my hands in my pockets and pretending to be invisible.
This was surprisingly easy. After a few minutes I felt like I was invisible. People would pass me on either side and pay me no mind, and I sat there like Emerson’s transparent eyeball, just watching. Once a man walked up to me with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a suitcase in tow. In Spanish accented heavily by another language (French?) he asked if I knew where a certain street was. I told him no, that I didn’t know the area very well. Maybe he should look at the map over there. I was very pleased with the completeness of my response, but I don’t think the man understood anything past, “No.”
He gave me a look that displayed disdain and understanding at once. “How dare you lean so casually against a lamppost if you’re not a local!” he seemed to say. “But since I’m a nice guy I’m trying very hard to forgive you.” Gee, thanks.
He headed back into the sea of people. I really did wish I could have helped him. I even thought about walking the ten steps and consulting the map for him, but by the time that thought entered my head it was too late. I was once again the invisible observer, sworn never to interfere. Besides, I was now watching his blue suitcase disappear along the Gran Via west past Sol.
I had been standing there I-don’t-know-how-long. I was starting to feel cold, but I liked the cold so I stayed a little longer. I watched the couples, the families, the friends … the couples, the families, the friends … and as I did so another feeling started to creep up. I was no long the impassive observer: I was lonely.
It wasn’t a total loneliness, or anything so depressing. I was simply feeling that empty space where someone should have been sharing the whole thing with me. The feeling had really been there the whole night- and probably most of my time here in Spain. Every breathtaking sight or impressive building, every crazy random Spanish event (like the drummers in El Retiro), every joke untold or meal unshared- they all lacked someone sitting next to me to whom I could say, “Hey, isn’t that something?” It was all a tree falling in the woods.
Now, it must be said that I’ve been a very good traveling companion to myself. I get along with me, I like all the same food as me, and besides which I think I’m a riot. But there are times when it would be nice to be able to turn to someone and say, “Man, that part where Allen Tudyk was ass-naked on the roof was hilarious!”
Guess you had to be there.
Comments
Of course, you can always imagine me there. I would prefer to be visualized as a Great Auk with many auklets fluttering about. Do auks flutter anyway?
@Deborah- So I'm a street-walking flaneur, am I?! Yeah, well, you're a Socratic rhetorician, and your mother's a Hegelian dialectic! How do you like THAT? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find out what those words mean.